


See You At The Show

by entanglednow



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Possessiveness, Tentacles, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:18:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Showing up before a mission kind of ruins the part where I trace the whole thing back to you, and then shoot you in the face."</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You At The Show

Chris doesn't need to be able to see in the dark, to know that Wesker's rifling through his stuff. This business tends to weed out the unobservant pretty fast.

"Showing up before a mission kind of ruins the part where I trace the whole thing back to you, and then shoot you in the face," he points out. His gun's still in his bag, because it had been a long damn flight, and he'd pretty much just showered and fallen straight into bed. That's a fuck-up he isn't going to repeat any time soon.

A dark, gloved hand flicks on the light, and the glow from Wesker's eyes is just visible behind the curves of his glasses. He takes in the room in one unimpressed sweep.

"You're better than this, better than them. You could be so much more, Chris."

Chris is already intimately acquainted with what 'more' looks like. What it does to you. He's going to have to pass.

"I'm fine with what I am." He judges how far away his bag is - too far.

Wesker's eyebrow lifts above his glasses, doubtful, mocking. "And what are you, Chris, hmm? Stretched out on cheap motel sheets, waiting to be sent to whatever shithole town sees fit to play god next. Is that your purpose? Is that the best you can be?"

Chris's eyes narrow. "Funny how every shithole seems to lead back to you though."

"And you keep coming," Wesker observes.

"Maybe you're just a habit I don't know how to break." Chris plants a foot on the mattress, because it's either Wesker or the bag. He isn't going to lay there and do nothing.

"The devil you know," Wesker says slowly, and Chris can hear amusement in his voice.

"Something like that," he admits, because, hell, maybe it's even true.

There's the faintest curve of a smile. "Then perhaps I should demand you pay your debts more often."

"I don't owe you anything."

Wesker moves before he's finished speaking. Chris had been waiting for it, but he's still too slow. The fist he throws is caught, turned, and then flung aside. Wesker uses his own momentum to twist him around, sheet tangling round his body and trapping his legs, as he's pushed face-down onto the bed. He struggles and wrenches at Wesker's grip, bare skin crushed under the impenetrable warmth of leather. A zip catches on his back, digs in, and then scrapes, hard enough to draw blood. Chris slams his head back, feels it vibrate with pain when it collides with Wesker's, but there's nothing for his trouble but a laugh, the slow grind of a knee into the middle of his spine. Nerves scream, bright, sudden pain and he grits his teeth and tries to elbow Wesker in the side.

"This would be much less fun if you didn't fight it." Wesker's gloved hand slides up into his hair, twists in the damp strands, and gives a slow, gentle tug.

Chris resists, feels the sting, but more importantly feels the fact that Wesker's grip is almost absolute. He could maybe break it, if he had a gun, or leverage -

Wesker strips the sheet from his back, and cold air crawls over his body. Chris really is going to have to start wearing his entire kit everywhere. Because your enemies shouldn't be able to get you naked and helpless so fucking easily. Or maybe he makes it easy, maybe he just doesn't try hard enough. Because he knows damn well anyone else - any _thing_ else - he would have taken down by now.

Wesker's hand drags through his hair, clenches briefly at the back of his neck and lifts away. There's the soft sound of leather moving, the long pull of a zip, and clothing hits the floor in a pile. Chris could move, he could go for a weapon, while Wesker's hand isn't in his hair. He doesn't, he just feels the weight of Wesker's knee in his back and breathes, pulse roaring in his throat. Shiver of angry, disgusted arousal tightening, low in his stomach. Yeah, he's pretty sure when it comes to things you hate yourself for, this is at the top of the list.

Chris can feel the creep and shift of a body that's no longer human. The press of flesh that he's familiar with - but never when he isn't holding a gun, and trying his damnedest to survive.

"Yeah, that self-control you prize so highly, not working out so well for you," he spits.

There's a pause, silent, tense.

"You're a distraction," Wesker finally admits. "One I should do something about."

The smooth press and pull of gloved fingers moves up his back, counting every vertebrae.

"But I'm more in control than you think."

There's too much of Wesker to be all human, Chris can feel it. The crawling weight of it, on top of him. Mutation, infection, spreading out into lines of muscles, dragging his thighs open, coiling and recoiling around them, until Chris can't move.

Not satisfied with his legs, Wesker stretches up and over him, and the slide of warm, slithery flesh crawls down his arms and starts threading its way around him. It leaves him pinned to the bed, a crawling nest of them on each wrist, winding there, leaving slick trails across the sheets and the tan of his arms.

"Every part of you is mine, and I'll do whatever I want with you," Wesker says into his ear, the cold crush of a lens digs into his temple.

The ropes around his thighs tighten, then pull with slow but inexorable force. His knees drag on the sheets, hips pulled up and back, and it isn't the most exposed he's ever been, but it's fucking close.

"Wesker," he hisses. The hand in his hair tightens. "You fuck."

"You have an over-active mouth," Wesker says calmly. The hand in his hair releases him, lets his head drop forward. The pillow's too hot to breathe into and he turns his head to the side. A leather glove is shoved between his teeth, warm and soft, and he bites down a fraction too late to catch the drifting ends of Wesker's fingertips.

The hand returns to his hair, fingers bare against his scalp, in a way that's as foreign as the creep of infection that's winding itself around his waist and thighs. They don't stop there, shifting higher, flexing like muscle, hot as blood. They don't even ask fucking permission, before they're spreading, pressing, nudging him open. Everything Wesker does is a crossed line. A taboo broken, and Chris hates him for it - hates himself for it - he can't stop getting caught up in it. It's like an addiction in his blood. Every angry, violent second of it makes him feel like he's falling, and sometimes he doesn't give a damn if he ever hits the ground.

But he'd be completely broken if he didn't think, just for a minute, that he can't do this, that it's too much, too awful, too fucked up. That's the moment, when they're wrapping around his waist, holding him, pressing into him. He chokes and groans and feels the bite of fingers in his hair, and his teeth dig so hard into Wesker's glove that they almost meet.

It goes on, and on, until he barely knows what's inside him any more, and he's making harsh, panting noises through his nose and _taking_ it. Every slow, hard, thrusting shove leaving him more open than the last. Everything rolling back and forth over the line from discomfort to pain.

"You have no idea what you look like." The low, rough tone of Wesker's voice makes Chris's pulse stutter and jump. But he grunts something uncomplimentary, listens to Wesker laugh. There's a faint, subtle jerk on the tentacles holding his legs apart. Enough to make his thighs ache, to make him grit his teeth and hiss. But the new angle is harder, deeper, better, and he hates that Wesker knows it too. That he can feel _everything_. The thought of Wesker knowing him inside out is terrifying.

And then he's empty, suddenly, a hot ache all the way through him - that's filled a second later by what is most definitely cock, sliding in too easy, deep in one long push. Wesker makes a hard, satisfied noise, like he's human, like he _feels_ , just like everyone else. His gloved hand spreads on Chris's back, fingers digging in.

Chris groans through a mouthful of leather, and bends his spine because he knows Wesker isn't going to be gentle.

He barely pauses to let Chris adjust to it before he's moving. He spits out the glove and tries to get his knees under him, hands spreading open, looking for something to brace against, but his wrists are held too tightly. He knows that Wesker could break him if he wanted to. He could break him in so many ways. But instead there'll just be bruises and scratches, and the ugly, utterly fucking wrong, burns where the mutated parts of him had wound too tightly, squeezed too hard.

It's never more than he can take, though he's stupid, and reckless and demanding and he asks for more anyway. He dares Wesker to take more. Until he's left wrung out and stretched open, sticky and shaking, eyes squeezed shut, throat raw, come running down the back of his thigh.

The tentacles holding his wrists and thighs twitch and then relax, sliding free, leaving his skin numb, and streaked with pinkish lines of blood.

Chris is left panting through clenched teeth, fingers loosely curled round the headboard.

"Next time I see you, I'm going to shoot you in the face," he promises, voice hoarse.

There's the quiet creak of leather from behind him, as Wesker reclaims his suit. Body a pretence of human once again.

"I look forward to it."


End file.
